I have nothing againts any body type. And definitely nothing againts people who are over volume.
It's just that, in Jakarta public bus, namely the Metro Mini, the hobbit-scaled seats are a menace to society, especially to those with generous size, and those who are unlucky enough to share the seats with them.
Let me tell you what happened to me this morning.
I was totally minding my own business, fending boredom and sleepinees, in the bus carrying me to the office. The seat next to mine was still empty. Until this lady got on board; one whose bulk was a bit over the standard. She quitely sat next to mine, bringing some of her generous volume right over my space. It was like having my body as sandwich filling between her and the bus wall.
There was no escaping such fate. The little I could do was moving my butt to the left a fraction of an inch, and re-alinging my back, just to survive the pressure from my right. And I quickly meditated myself to sleep. Sleep, the ultimate escape from all things uncomfortable.
Now what I have is the fleeting sensation of numbness on my right arm.
Have a happy life, dear friends.
Thursday, September 8
Wednesday, September 7
Unconditional love
People always hail mothers as heroes: creatures with love so in abundant that they require nothing in return.
I'm a mom of four, and I don't see it that way.
It's the children who have the unconditional love towards their parents.
No matter how much we suck as being one, they would love us.
No matter how bad (God forbid!) we treat them, they would love us.
When we are angry at them for reason that is not entirely theirs , perhaps because we are too tired, or too stressed out with other things in life, they would just swallow it and still love us.
They would love us no matter how we dress, no matter how we act, no matter how silly we are, regardless of the many mistakes we've made, and so on.
When things go bad, as in divorce, more than few would feel that part of it was their fault.
When things are not good in the household, some would feel that they are to blame.
You look into your children eyes, and you'd know that their love for us are unconditional.
Just because we happen to be their parents.
Having children is our choice. Being our children are not theirs. It's a given.
And yet they love us with all their being.
/sapobi
I'm a mom of four, and I don't see it that way.
It's the children who have the unconditional love towards their parents.
No matter how much we suck as being one, they would love us.
No matter how bad (God forbid!) we treat them, they would love us.
When we are angry at them for reason that is not entirely theirs , perhaps because we are too tired, or too stressed out with other things in life, they would just swallow it and still love us.
They would love us no matter how we dress, no matter how we act, no matter how silly we are, regardless of the many mistakes we've made, and so on.
When things go bad, as in divorce, more than few would feel that part of it was their fault.
When things are not good in the household, some would feel that they are to blame.
You look into your children eyes, and you'd know that their love for us are unconditional.
Just because we happen to be their parents.
Having children is our choice. Being our children are not theirs. It's a given.
And yet they love us with all their being.
/sapobi
I should write, again
it's been long since I wrote last
nothing special to write
well, that's not it
i just lost my passion in lots of things lately
writing, for one
things I see are still interesting in their own way
but I don't seem to be able to put what I see into words
that's a scarry sign
I used to love to write
it's used to be what made my day
I need to find my passion again
I need to start seeing again
and write what I see
it's a kind of self indulgence, you see
better than eating
cost writing wouldn't add to your body weight
well, enough rambling for today
hope you (whoever you are), will find me writing again
and nicely at it
live happy!
nothing special to write
well, that's not it
i just lost my passion in lots of things lately
writing, for one
things I see are still interesting in their own way
but I don't seem to be able to put what I see into words
that's a scarry sign
I used to love to write
it's used to be what made my day
I need to find my passion again
I need to start seeing again
and write what I see
it's a kind of self indulgence, you see
better than eating
cost writing wouldn't add to your body weight
well, enough rambling for today
hope you (whoever you are), will find me writing again
and nicely at it
live happy!
Friday, January 14
The lying game
Lying is such a complicated game, if you'd like to call it a game.
The rules are vague, and the score is hard to keep. There's no referee, and no time-out. And it never ends.
You lie once. Then someone may innocently poked into it. You lie again. Then you lie to cover your second lie. You have to remember what you lie about. Or when. You have to keep the details in your memory.
Your memory may lapse someday. Then it will come out, the lie. And all the lies you composed to cover that one lie would fall down like deck of cards. Then you are exposed. Naked.
Or not. Depending. If you really are good at lying, you'd lie again about lying. Then life would be all good.
Supposedly.
You may live with that tiny weeny voice inside you telling you how you've wronged others. Or yourself.
You may live with a speck of guilt holing into your heart.
But then again, depending. A tiny voice is easily crushed.
On the other hand, telling the truth is sometimes not easy, either.
Consequences may be dire. Life could be altered.
So you chose.
(don't tell this to Horatio Caine)
The rules are vague, and the score is hard to keep. There's no referee, and no time-out. And it never ends.
You lie once. Then someone may innocently poked into it. You lie again. Then you lie to cover your second lie. You have to remember what you lie about. Or when. You have to keep the details in your memory.
Your memory may lapse someday. Then it will come out, the lie. And all the lies you composed to cover that one lie would fall down like deck of cards. Then you are exposed. Naked.
Or not. Depending. If you really are good at lying, you'd lie again about lying. Then life would be all good.
Supposedly.
You may live with that tiny weeny voice inside you telling you how you've wronged others. Or yourself.
You may live with a speck of guilt holing into your heart.
But then again, depending. A tiny voice is easily crushed.
On the other hand, telling the truth is sometimes not easy, either.
Consequences may be dire. Life could be altered.
So you chose.
(don't tell this to Horatio Caine)
Friday, June 25
therapy
writing, they say, is a form of therapy
it let you off your bad feeling
it let you share good feeling
it let you, well, just type and sometimes wondering at the words that come out of your mind
i've been out of therapy for too long, I guess
or maybe I have no need for it anymore
but then again, I am writing this
maybe now I need it again
life has been good
at times, as usual with life, it's not that good
but good in general
(how I wish I can put that conviction in my heart and be thankful for every second of it)
I should punish myself for not being thankful enough, perhaps
coz there is none to complain about my life, actually
none whatsoever
it let you off your bad feeling
it let you share good feeling
it let you, well, just type and sometimes wondering at the words that come out of your mind
i've been out of therapy for too long, I guess
or maybe I have no need for it anymore
but then again, I am writing this
maybe now I need it again
life has been good
at times, as usual with life, it's not that good
but good in general
(how I wish I can put that conviction in my heart and be thankful for every second of it)
I should punish myself for not being thankful enough, perhaps
coz there is none to complain about my life, actually
none whatsoever
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